Jake noted the fingerprint dust on the glove.
"You'd only want to use something like this if, I don't know, you were trying to get intimate about what you were doing."
"Makes sense," Jake said.
Dan gestured at the room around them, the art on the walls. "With what you do here, I'm assuming you use the same kind of gloves?"
Jake said nothing. Instead he opened the drawer on the toolbox next to his stool, showing Dan the dispensing box filled with precisely the same kind of glove. He pulled one out and held it up.
Dan took the glove, rubbed the latex between his thumb and forefinger. "So then, what more can you tell me?"
"What do you want to know?"
"It may seem obvious, but humor me. Why do you use them?"
"Blood borne pathogens," Jake said. "In order to meet OSHA standards they must be worn."
"Clean hands won't do it?"
"Used to, but times have changed."
"My guy," Dan said, "I doubt he's concerned with OSHA standards. Any idea why he'd go with these instead of something else? They're delicate after all. Easily ripped." He attempted to pull Jake's glove over his hand and it split at the wrist. He showed Jake his hand like O.J. in court.
Jake smiled. "We're talking criminal profiling here, right?"
"What happened to your head?" Dan said.
"Oh this?" Jake nearly touched the bump, chewed the corner of his mouth. "I... uh..."
"I noticed you got some brand new tires on the truck," Dan said. "All four?"
Jake nodded.
Dan smirked. "What'd you do, run over a spike strip?"
"No."
"You know," Dan said, "I've never seen the upstairs to this place. You stay up there, right?"
Jake felt rattled. He offered humor. "Shortest commute in the world."
"I'd love to see your setup."
"Come on," Jake said. He led Sergeant Dan through the shop and up the back stairs to his apartment. He held open the door at the top of the steps and let the detective in. "Home sweet."
Dan looked around the room, nodding appraisingly at what he saw. He pointed at the water pitcher. "What's that?"
"A gift from my father," Jake said.
"Thought you didn't know him?"
"He left it with my mother."
"Walked out on her, right?"
"Something like that."
Dan went over to the water pitcher.
Jake looked over the sergeant's shoulder, out the window, and saw his horizon between the skyscrapers. Closer now than yesterday. A thicker band.
Dan looked back at Jake. "Looks ancient. Can I touch it?"
"Sure."
Sergeant Dan picked up the water pitcher easily. For him it was maybe a couple pounds. For Jake it would feel like fifty by now. Dan turned the pitcher to examine it, and though he tried to hide that he was doing it, Jake saw that he sniffed at it. He said something Jake couldn't read.
"Sorry," Jake said. "I didn't get that."
Dan turned to Jake. "Darnell Collins doesn't want a tattoo, does he?"
Jake chewed at the corner of his mouth.
"What's the deal with this guy, Jake? How are you involved with him?"
"It's a long story."
"You willing to tell it?"
Jake shook his head.
"Is he the one who put that knot on your head?"
Jake didn't respond.
"Do I need to go have a talk with this guy," Dan said. "Set him straight? Harris is waiting for me in the car. We can go over-"
"No," Jake said. "I can handle it."
"This is a bad man you're messing with, bud. You've seen his rap sheet. I want to help you if I can."
"I appreciate that, but I've got it covered."
"Does your mother know you're involved with him?"
Jake bristled. "I'm not a child."
Dan nodded. "Even so, maybe I should have a talk with her?"
The two men held each other's gaze for a moment while Jake considered his reply. Eventually, he said, "You've always helped me when I need it, Dan. Honestly, you're the best man I know. There was a time when I thought—hoped—you were my father. I hoped the past you shared with my mother meant something more than just friendship. It wasn't until I was released that I discovered the truth. I'm sorry she doesn't love you. I don't know why. I'm not sure she's capable of loving anyone but herself or anything but her job. The best thing for you is to forget about her."
"That's not what I meant, Jake. You know that."
Jake offered no reply.
Dan set down the water pitcher. "It's funny coming from you... " He moved toward the door.
Jake let him pass. "Why do you say that?"
At the top of the stairs Dan turned back and asked, "How's Lori?"
28
Jake stepped out of his storefront on to the sidewalk. He watched as the detective's unmarked sedan drove past. The frog-eyed Detective Harris waved from the passenger seat.
Once the car was out of sight, Jake backed up to the plate glass and slid down until his butt was on the knee-high concrete sill. He dropped his head into his hands, his elbows to his knees. The quickening felt like thirst now, like low blood sugar. Sergeant Dan's "How's Lori?" question had cut deeply. It was an innocent dig, a little fuck-you-for-saying-that, but it forced Jake to look into a mirror he hadn't been willing to look in before.
Now that he was looking, he hated what he saw.
He was a chump. The woman he chased was no different from his cold-hearted mother, and no less distant. The idea of affection backed both Lori and his mother into a corner, made them expose their claws and hiss. And yet he and Sergeant Dan were the kind of stupid men who trotted right in like numbnut dogs and got scratched up and bloody for their trouble, got their noses bopped around like rhythm bags to their own bewilderment.
Jake pulled his head out of his hands and sat up. He opened his eyes to find Ray Westerhouse standing in front of him on the sidewalk. "Hey, Ray."
Ray used sign language. "Had a talk with that detective?"
Jake nodded.
"How'd it go?"
"Fine," Jake replied. "He wanted information about a case he's working. Thought I could help him."
"Did you?"
"No idea."
"I know him," Ray signed. "He's a good man."
Jake nodded.
"Is there something I can do?"
"I don't think so."
"I can keep a secret," Ray signed. "Won't say a word."
"You rarely do."
"You still need that haircut."
Jake smirked. "Now may not be the best time."
"Then you should go visit your friend," Ray signed. "The crazy one."
"How's that?"
Ray switched from signing to his voice. "You've got that look about you. Visiting him always seems to help."
"Maybe you're right."
"And stay away from that girl."
"You think she's trouble, huh?"
"No," Ray said. "She's just not ready yet." He started back toward his own storefront.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jake said to Ray's back.
Ray reached the door to his shop. He gripped the handle and looked back at Jake. He stared for a moment, and then let go of the handle. He returned to sign language to say, "You may be deaf, but she's blind, and you're both acting pretty dumb."
Jake smirked. He went back into the shop and through the kitchen, where he almost slammed into Aleksei, who seemed to have simply appeared at the back steps.
"Where did you come from?" Jake said.
The ancient djinni shrugged and gestured toward the nearest window. "I was fly on wall." He smelled of old sweat and sweet elephant ears.
"Just you?" Jake said, looking around for more flies.
"Chavie sent me with message. Your father grows near, but this is not concern. Concern is wish. Concern is going back to jail. Do not do."
"Yeah," Jake said. "No shit."
"Chavie says sergeant is good man. Sergeant will handle Collins."
"There's no time for that. Besides, arresting Collins won't help Frankie."
"I do not know Frankie, but I side with Chavie. Let sergeant handle Collins."
"What is this about my dad?"
Aleksei shrugged. "You will meet him, yes, if he comes?"
"I guess so."
"Is this not what you want?"
"I don't know."
"It is good to know father," Aleksei said. "I knew mine for short time before he was killed. I am glad for this time."
Jake tilted his head. "But your father was a djinni, right?"
"Yes. Of course."
"I thought djinn lived forever?"
"It is not true. We bleed. Just as you. And we die. Meet with father before Eschaton comes. It is good idea."
A blank moment and Jake was standing alone at the stairway. There was a fly on the doorjamb rubbing its front legs together.
"Eschaton?" Jake said to the fly.
The fly looped around the kitchen and then landed back on the doorjamb. Jake opened the door and the fly buzzed out. He followed it out the doorway and got into his truck.
* * *
Sergeant MacDonald pulled into traffic a few cars behind Jake's truck. He and Harris tailed at mid-range until Jake got onto the expressway where they slowed down and hung back. MacDonald and Harris exchanged a glance when Jake took the exit toward Wixom.
MacDonald took the exit, too, following Jake from a distance until he turned into the preservation area surrounding Dover Psychiatric.
"He's got an old friend there, I think," MacDonald said as he passed the entrance, pulled a U-turn and headed back down the road.
They passed the entrance to Dover again, drove another mile, and turned right onto Clichon Avenue, a dirt road that cut through the hardwoods and evergreens.
"What was that address again?" MacDonald said.
"It's probably the only house on this road."
"Humor me."
Harris opened a folder and ran his finger down a printout. He stopped and read out load. "Darnell Collins, 4435 Clichon Avenue."
* * *
Motown was back inside the visitor's cage with his head down, back at the steel table with his wrists manacled, one hand holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers, the other with a pinkie extended.
Jake sat down and pinkie swore with his friend.
Motown lifted his head. "One of these days I won't swear, you know that?"
"I know."
"You're not looking so hot, Rage."
"Not feeling so hot, either."
"You gotta look into that surgery," Motown said, plucking the electric coil lighter from his chest pocket. "Get those ears fixed." He lit the cigarette and inhaled.
"So I can hear the music?" Jake said.
"That's right."
"How is she, by the way?"
"Cecilia?"
Jake nodded.
Motown leaned in. Jake imagined that his voice got quiet when he said, "She's knows something. The way she's been singing lately, the tone of her voice. She knows a change is coming."
"She may be right."
Motown sat back. "Of course she's right. Thought maybe you'd come here to let me wish."
"Sorry."
"It's all good. I know you'll do me right someday."
"This man I'm meant to kill," Jake said. "He's a bad dude."
"You're a bad dude, too, Rage. But you ain't no killer. No luck changing the kid's wish?"
"Not yet."
"Have you found the old man?"
Jake pointed to the bump on his head, his face went deadpan.
Motown smirked. "Was gonna ask you about that. Beer bottle?"
"Machete handle."
"Ouch."
"Told me next time it would be the blade."
"Look," Motown said, leaning in again, presumably whispering again, "if the kid's dad is Jason, I don't think you can kill that fool. He'll just come back in a sequel."
Jake chuckled. "Friday the Thirteenth, part Twenty, Jason Takes Wixom."
"So long as they show titties, I'll watch it."
"Isn't that the only reason for those movies?"
"Only reason that matters. Speaking of which, how's your girl?"
Jake shook his head. "Forget about her, man."
"Let me guess. She met a new guy?"
"Yeah. Some asshole named Preston."
"Preston?"
Jake nodded.
"Jesus. What's this dickhead got that you don't?"
Jake indicated his ears.
"That's bullshit."
"It doesn't matter, anyway."
"What doesn't matter?"
"There's nothing between us. Never has been."
"You listen to me," Motown said. "You think I'm crazy, but what I've got with Cecilia, what we have? It's pure. It's love. Love always finds a way."
"She's just a river," Jake said.
"She's music. She's here with me, all the time. She's part of me and I'm part of her. If you could only hear."
"I know what a river sounds like."
"Do you know what Lori sounds like?"
"Fuck you."
Motown shook his head. "You don't understand. I don't hear Cecilia with these." He pointed to his ears. "But with this." He laid a hand on his heart. "I'm like one of those fish out there, inside her. Our heartbeat is the same, our blood is the same."
Jake looked off.
Motown slammed his hand on the table. Jake didn't hear the sound but felt the vibration. He looked at his friend.
"You ever wonder about those trout in that river, Rage? When you're out there fishing, you ever wonder why some of them take the bait, huh? Some of them may be hungry, sure, but others... maybe some others have spent their whole lives seeing only reflections of light, and maybe they take the bait because they just want to see the source, understand?"
"No."
"Maybe they just want to see the sun."
"And then suffocate and die."
"They can't breathe in the real world."
"Their deaths are torturous. They're chopped apart, filleted, and eaten."
"So others can live on."
The two friends stared at each other for a moment—Motown waiting for Jake's next retort, Jake unwilling to walk down their beaten path.
Motown took a drag off his cigarette, held in the smoke.
"I gotta get through to this kid," Jake said. "Make him change his wish."
"Maybe he wants a new bike or something, eh? Gotta be something he wants more than his old man dead."
"Killed."
"Whatever, dude. Get the kid a bike."
29
"Nice place," Detective Harris said as he and Sergeant MacDonald pulled their unmarked sedan up the gravel drive at 4435 Clichon Avenue. The home before them was a mix of architectural anomalies, the setup undoubtedly born of poverty and unanswered need. Nothing was to code, nothing cared for, everything off plumb. Corners of tar paper peeked out from behind cracked siding. There were exposed nail heads and dots of crusty caulk. Around the home there were various rusty items strewn about the yard, long weeds rising from the grass at their bases. One of the discarded machines was, ironically, a weed-whacker. Near the driveway there was a wooden spoon stabbed into the soil.
MacDonald stepped out of the driver's side, Harris the passenger's side. They approached the front door. It opened before they stepped onto the concrete slab porch. A lung punch of tobacco smoke greeted them in front of a small, mid-twenties woman who stayed behind the wooden screen door. She was skinny in a rainbow muumuu. Her shoulders were freckled, her arms tan, the backs of her hands were lightning-struck with veins. Her eyes were light green, the left one framed in the pale yellow of a healing bruise. She could be pretty, given a little personal care and a couple extra pounds on her frame. She puffed in faux elegance on a cigarette and said, "Whaddya want?"
MacDonald showed his badge.
Harris followed suit.
"You don't say," the woman said.
"We're looking to speak with Darnell," Harris said. "He here?"
"No," the woman said. "What'd he do now?"
"Your name, ma'am?"
She looked at Harris like he just burped in her face. "People call me Beauty."
Harris smiled his froggy smile. "Fitting."
Beauty wasn't amused. "If you have an issue with Darnell, take it up with him. I don't have the time."
"Anyone else at home, ma'am?" MacDonald asked.
"Nope. Just me and me."
"Anyone else live here other than you and Darnell?"
"My boy, Frankie."
"Where's he?"
"Wherever the hell ten-year-old boys run off to on sunny days, officer."
"Sergeant," Harris said, indicating MacDonald with a tilt of his head and a smile.
"Whatever."
"May we come in?" MacDonald said.
Beauty eyed him suspiciously. "You said you wanted Darnell. I told you he's not here."
"All the same, ma'am," MacDonald said. "I'm asking politely."
"And if I say no?"
"That's your right, but I may have to file a domestic abuse report on your behalf." He ran a finger along his left eye, same spot as her bruise.
Beauty looked down, puffed on her cigarette, looked up again. "You can't do that. I have to be the one to press charges."
"Sure, but maybe a report accidentally slips into the system and we have to come out here to investigate, verify you actually don't want to press charges. Might be a spot of trouble for a man with Darnell's sheet."
Beauty sighed and pushed the screen door open. "Fair warning, the maid's on vacation. I suppose you'll be wanting coffee?"
"No, thank you," MacDonald said.
They followed Beauty into the house and down the small hallway that led past a tiny living room into the kitchen. The floor was spongy beneath their feet, the walls water damaged, the furniture cheap. There were the scents of fried fat and canned spaghetti beneath the cigarette smoke.
Beauty turned around in the kitchen, leaned against the counter, and wrapped a bony arm around her midsection. "Like I said, he's not here."
"Like you said," MacDonald replied. "Question is, where is he? Work?"
The Stonefly Series, Book 1 Page 16
